


The Law Man

by Lusciousinpain



Series: Hot Spies In Love [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Espionage, M/M, Pining, spys, traumatic past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusciousinpain/pseuds/Lusciousinpain
Summary: Sam laughs, a short bark that throws Dean off. "Meg was right," he says, head shaking in disbelief and looking at Dean as if seeing him for the very first time, "your dick is going to get us killed."





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the second installment in this spies series. It's mostly filler (no porn) but nevertheless essential.  
> I hope you enjoy it, and if you have questions, pls ask. Operators are standing by!  
> ^_^

It takes nearly two days of nonstop driving to reach FBI headquarters, the journey made all the more arduous by the silence that stretched uncomfortably between Dean and Sam, with each passing mile. 

They stopped only a handful of times along the way (to stretch their legs, for gas and snacks) but not once to rest. Neither said much of anything the entire drive, each man weighed down heavily with a guilty conscience, and only breaking the tense silence every few miles with a non-committal grunt or a nod. 

But the imposed silence was mutual, both Dean and Sam feared what might come out of their mouths once they started airing their grievances. It's also why they chose to head straight to their boss' office, instead of stopping at their place for a quick bite and a shower, first. 

They'd already spent too much time alone together, and the tension was palpable.

...

_It's 8am_

Dean pulls into his personal parking spot at FBI headquarters and cuts the engine. He exhales a heavy sigh, checks his reflection in the review mirror, and sighs again.

He looks like shit, if he's being honest, and immediately busies himself with neatening up before they head inside. It's not an easy task, but he does the best he can, given the circumstances. 

"Well, it'll just have to do." He exhales, then shifts in his seat to face Sam. "Look, I know you're pissed-"

Sam snorts, mutters something Dean doesn't quite catch, but if he were to guess, it's probably rude. Dean decides to ignore it; he's trying to be an adult here, the mature person Sam is always nagging him to be, and tries again.

He takes a deep breath, exhales, meets his brother's eyes, and this time says, "At least give me a chance to explain to Bobby what happened before you throw me under the bus." Sam replies by slamming the car's door in Dean's face and storming off. 

Now Dean's pissed.

"Hey!" He shouts, chasing after Sam. "You don't get to take whatever shit you got with me, out on baby!"

But Sam doesn't slow or turn around, and in a dozen quick strides, he's punching his code into the elevator keypad, getting in, then hitting the button to his floor, without waiting for Dean to join him.

...

 

Dean is still trying to neaten up when he's unceremoniously pulled out of the elevator the second the door opens, and ushered into an interrogation room. 

"Watch the suit, douchebag." Dean shoves the offending agent back and dusts himself off. 

The agent snorts in Dean's face, but Dean just gives him the finger and takes a quick scan of the space. It's a standard interview room with a two-way mirror, a table and a couple of chairs, with Sam sitting in one if them. 

Dean meets Sam's eyes and without saying a word - just a frown and a nod - communicates, _'What the fuck is going on?'_

"Sit your ass down, Winchester." The other agent is suddenly by Dean's side, and Dean grimaces, "Whew!" He coughs, fanning a hand in front of his face, "Damn, Gordon, you ever hear of a tic-tac?" 

Gordon responds with a laugh and a slow clap of his hands. But instead of sinking to Dean's level, he sinks even lower; he goes after Sam. "Hmpht," he sneers, aiming his derision in Sam's direction, "I knew it would only be a matter of time before your brother ended up on this side of the mirror, Sam." 

He walks to where Sam is sitting, and sneers, "But I gotta say, I'm not at all surprised to see you here."

Sam ignores him while Dean silently seethes, fits clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"It's actually funny," Gordon chuckles, cruel and humorless, bracing his hands on the table top so that he's now nose to nose with Sam, "how quickly the high and mighty fall from grace." He straightens back up, adjusts his jacket, then remarks with an air of feigned casualness, "Or should I say...ironic?" 

"Fuck off, Walker!" Dean has heard enough; agent Walker's snide comments piss him off, but Sam's complacency, is downright infuriating. "Get out. Now." 

"Hmpht," Gordon snorts, turning his focus back on Dean, "what's the matter, Dean? Did I hit to close to home?" He huffs a mean little laugh, steps closer and they bump chests. "Or, are you just sore because I was right all along, huh? That my warnings about your no-good-traitorous brother, were all cor-"

An upper-cut to the jaw shuts Gordon up. He hits the wall, then the floor, gets up on shaky legs, wipes his hand across his mouth, and curses at Dean when it comes back coated in his blood. 

Dean knows what's coming next. So before Gordon can retaliate, he lunges first, but he doesn't get far. 

"Let me go!" Dean hisses, struggling in Sam's grip. 

Agent Walker snorts again, "That's a good boy Sam. You may be a murderous monster," he grins, pushing off the wall and charging at them, "but at least you're smart enough to know that I'm right." 

He collides with Dean, with Sam, and all three men grapple. Fists fly and a table overturns in the melee. Sam tries to intervene, to get them to stop, to see reason, while Dean blocks Gordon's blows. The fight lasts only a minute, climaxing with a well aimed kick from Dean to Gordon's gut. The force of it knocks the wind from the other agent's lungs, but not the vengeance from his heart. 

"You're both going to pay for this!" Gordon vows, a crumbled heap on the floor. "Mark my words," he spits, "you're both going to-" 

"What in the hell is going on?"

...

The fight ceases the moment FBI Chief, Bobby Singer, walks into the room, all three men fall silent and time freezes.

"I don't give a flying fig _if_ Gordon started it first!" The Chief shouts, eyeballing each man. "And you," he barks, jabbing a meaty finger against Dean's chest, "I expected _you_ to know better, senior agent Winchester!" 

"Sir, I didn't-"

"I'm not done!" Bobby shouts, cutting Dean off and then turning to Sam. "Agent Winchester," he calls, spotting Sam and leveling him with his best _'don't bullshit me'_ , glare, "explain what the hell happened!"

"Ah, Chief?" Sam isn't sure if Bobby is referring to what just happened between them and agent Walker, or if he is asking for an update on their latest case. "Do you mean, what happened here?" 

Bobby mutters a curse, throws his arms up, and leaves the room. "Well, come on you two!" He hollers, charging to his office and then shouting over his shoulder, "And Walker, clean up that mess!" 

...

Bobby slams the door to his office then points to two chairs. He takes his own seat, pulls out a thick folder and starts leafing through it. 

The silence stretches, Dean and Sam exchange several looks, but neither dares to speak first. 

Well almost.

"Jesus, Bobby, what the hell was Gordon's problem?"

Bobby's eyes zero in on Dean and he grumbles, "Boy, you're lucky I didn't have you thrown in a god-damn-cell for all of the crap you've pulled."

Dean fish-mouths, but wisely keeps quiet. It's Sam's turn to be outraged.

"Bobby," He blurts, scooting to the edge of his seat, "just wait a minute." Sam glances at Dean then fixes his gaze on their superior, "It wasn't Dean's fault." 

Dean's jaw drops, Bobby glowers. "That's not how it reads." Bobby counters, flinging the report he'd been pursuing.

Sam catches it then skims through it, lips moving with each word he reads. When he's done, he looks up and states, "There's no signature." He flips through it again, then shakes his head. "Who wrote this?"

Bobby takes back the report, but doesn't reply. 

"You're not going to tell us?" 

Bobby exhales, "No."

"You've got to be shitting me-"

"Watch how you talk to me." Bobby warns, but he can see how unfair this must seem to both agents. So he offers the following, and hopes it suffices. "The agent that submitted this is, well, he's deep undercover-" 

"And so are we! Who the hell- "

"Stop interrupting and let me finish!"

Dean and Sam fold their arms across their chests and hold their tongues, both eager to learn the identity of their accuser.

"His identity is classified, okay. And we can't risk blowing his cover. And neither of you bozos is cleared to know-"

"Wait," Dean interrupts, he trades looks with Sam, looks back at Bobby, "Say again." He says, digging his fingers into his thighs. "Are you telling us that we're not...cleared?" 

Bobby knew this was going to get ugly and that the Winchesters would be pissed. "That's right." He nods, not letting Dean's glare intimidate him. "Niether of you. The higher-ups feel the less you know, well, the better."

Dean stands, yells, slams his fist on Bobby's desk while Sam sits and watches, wheels turning in his head while he tries to figure out who the other agent could possibly be. 

"Shut up Dean!" Bobby puts an end to Dean's tirade and orders him to sit back down. "We're not finished. So shut your damn trap, and listen up." He opens another file, rifles through it, finds the page he was looking for and asks Sam, "Where is this..." He looks at his notes, reads, "Meg Masters?"

"We..." Sam looks to Dean then back to Bobby, "left her at the ah..."

"Spill it, Sam. I already know about the warehouse." 

"How can you know?" Sam asks, only he and his brother (and sure, Meg too) know about the warehouse and the shit that happened there. "Is Meg...did she turn herself in?" 

Bobby snorts, looks back at his notes, "If she was here, then why would I be asking you where the hell she is?" 

There's a sharp intake of breath and both Sam and Bobby turn to Dean. 

"Something you'd like to share?" Bobby asks, brow cocked, suspicious.

Dean coughs into his fist, clears his throat, beats his fist against his chest, and burps. "Um...sorry, indigestion."

Bobby knows Dean is hiding something, but he doesn't press. Sam on the other hand, can't wait to find out what Dean knows. If his own suspicions are correct, then they need to get back to the drawing-board and rethink their entire strategy on the Milton family.

... 

"And where the hell do you two think you're going?" Bobby barks, gesturing for Dean and Sam to retake their seats. "I didn't say you were dismissed." 

"Ah," Sam swallows, eager to leave, "we just wanted to go check on our...special guests." 

"Sit." Bobby glowers, and they do.

"I've got an update on your two 'special guests'," he parrots, meaning Michael and Lucifer Milton, "right here. So, if you'll just give me a minute of your precious time, I'll give you an update on their current status, and then you can be on your merry way." 

Bobby pulls out yet another folder (the thickest one so far) and quickly leafs through it. "The agent in attendance states that Michael and Lucifer spend the bulk of their time in each other's company, but bickering." He huffs, "And I quote, 'like an old married couple'.

"The agent goes on to add that they're also constantly at each other's throats and more often than not, flinging slurs and condemnations at one another. Real 'Wrath of God' sort of thing. But that so far," he concludes, "neither has said or admitted to anything of value."

Bobby closes the file and looks up, he meets Sam's eyes, sees the weight of this past year sit heavily on his youthful brow, and frowns. He tsks and pulls out another file, all the while weighing the pros and cons of reassigning both agents before the stress of dealing with the Milton family case, kills them. 

Just like his undercover agent warned him it will.

"Dean," Bobby says, setting the latest folder on his desk. But instead of meeting Dean's eyes, he meets the back of his head. "Hey!" He hollers, "Am I boring you?" 

Dean jerks. "Huh?" He replies, embarrassed he was caught staring out the window. But truth be told, he stopped listening minutes ago; his main concern now is to learn as much as he can about one specific Milton, rather than hear the mundane details about the two psychopaths currently in custody. 

"Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?" Bobby asks, gruff but not unkind. 

Dean face palms, mutters, "Sorry, Bobby." But doesn't elaborate. Mainly because he doesn't know what the hell is wrong - this unrelenting distraction that's had a hold over him ever since he and Sam hit the road, simply refuses to loosen its it's grip on him. 

"I'm just...tired." Dean says, adding a loud, jaw-cracking, yawn to back-up the lameness of his excuse.

Bobby harrumphs, eyeballs Dean a second longer, then starts reading. "This here is an in depth report on the connection between the Milton crime family and the notorious Crowleys."

"Let me guess," interrupts Sam, smirking, "that report was also written by your mysterious super secret agent."

Bobby doesn't answer, instead he coughs, clears his throat, and resumes. "I believe it's time you two started focusing on Crowley and his gang."

"And what about the Miltons, Bobby? Huh? Who's going to focus on Gabriel, and Balthazar, and Ann-"

"Sam," Bobby snaps, cutting Sam off, "I know this comes as a surprise, but shut up a minute so I can finish!" 

Sam grudgingly settles back in his seat. He'll listen to what Bobby has to say, but there's no way in hell he's handing control of his case, over to another agent.

"It's time we start accepting the fact that Michael and Lucifer are no longer calling the shots." Bobby tells them, picking up the report and reading, "It says here that Rowena Crowley, that's Crowley's mother, in case you already didn't know, was behind those killings over in Vegas-"

"The prostitute murders?" Sam chimes in. 

"Heh, more like the prostitute's customers murders." Corrects Dean.

"You two done?" Bobby exhales, rubbing at his burning eyes. "You're right, Dean. Those 'ladies and gentleman of the night', so to speak, went on quite the killing spree. Targeting the Governor, the Mayor, her staff, heck, the whole police force, was almost wiped out. So yeah, I think it's time you transfer whatever other files and information you have on the Miltons, over to me, so you can put all of your energy on the Crowleys." 

"Hells no, Bobby!" Dean is on his feet in a flash, Sam by his side.

"We broke this case!" Argues Sam, just as upset as his brother. "These are our contacts you're talking about, our sources. We can't just hand them over like that!"

Bobby lets both men speak their peace, but after a minute, his head starts to throb. "Enough!" He roars, getting to his feet. "Now, what you two don't seem to realize is that I'm Chief, okay! And that means that I'm the one that gets to call the shots! I tell you what to do and which case to investigate. Got it?" 

"..."

"That wasn't a rhetorical question."

"Sorry Bobby, I mean, Chief." Sam looks over at his brother, sees the deep furrow in his brow and knows trouble is brewing. They need to exit, before Dean makes matters worse.

"We're both just really tired." Sam explains, and it's the truth. "We haven't had any sleep in the past two days. No real food, we're exhausted."

Sam nods to Dean, adds, "The past couple of days have been, well, long. And if you can just give us a couple of hours, we'll go home, shower, get something real to eat, maybe take a nap, and then we'll be good as new." 

Bobby glowers and grumbles, but he's sympathetic, too. He knows both boys push themselves too hard - just like their daddy did. "Sam," he says, shaking his head, "I stopped believing your promises since you were no higher than my waist." But he makes the remark with a smile, small and difficult to see because of his beard, but it reaches his eyes and Sam exhales in relief. 

Bobby exhales too, retakes his seat, and studies both boys a few seconds longer (his keen eyes gauging their level of stress) and not for the first time wonders if he should just reassign them, ship them as far away as he can, for as long as he can, or at least until this whole damn mess is over. 

"So...can we go?" Dean asks, yawning for real, this time.

Bobby snorts, mutters something about being too old for this shit, and replies, "Yeah."

He files away the last folder he had pulled out and locks it away; he's got some things he needs to think over, and a few more questions he needs answered by a certain undercover agent, before he's ready to reveal the entire story about the Miltons and the Crowleys to the Winchesters. 

"Go on then." He says, standing up and escorting them to the door. "Get out of here." 

"Thanks Bobby. We'll see you-"

"First thing tomorrow morning" he says, reaching past them and opening the door. "We still need to go over a couple of things. And I also want to brief you on your new assignment."

"Bobby," Sam rounds on Bobby, implores, "you gotta reconsider. Nobody else knows as much about this case as we do. And if you seriously think that we're just going to drop it on some other agent's lap, well then-"

"That's enough!" Bobby hollers at him, shoving past Dean to get to the elevator. "You're both exhausted, remember?" He presses the button and when it immediately opens, tells them, "Now get in, go home, get some damn rest, and we'll talk about it tomorrow!"


	2. Chapter 2

_It's ten am_

The drive to their house is just as tense and uncomfortable as their two day drive to headquarters, but nowhere near as silent. 

"He can't do that to us!" Dean insists, punching the dashboard then immediately regretting it. He curses, apologizes to his car, and falls silent. But he doesn't stay that way for long.

"Well?" He snaps, looking away from the road to glare at his brother. "What do you think?"

"I think we should talk to Meg." Sam offers, bracing himself for the reaction he knows is about to come.

"Meg?" Dean grimaces; he does not like that woman. "Why do we need her again?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sam replies, weary with the whole ordeal and eager for bed. He rubs at his aching temples, pinches the bridge of his nose, and reminds Dean, "She helped us capture Michael and Lucifer. So...let's find her again, and this time, ask her to help us catch Castiel."

"What? Have you lost your mind?" 

"No." Sam frowns, countering with a scathing, "Have you?" 

Dean can't believe his brother's cheekiness. "For fucksake, Sam, didn't you hear what Bobby said, before? Huh? About a secret agent-"

"Yes, I did. But Dean, we're all secret agents-"

"Yeah, but this guy is a double secret agent-"

"And what makes you think it was a guy-"

"'Course it was a guy. Bobby said 'he', as in dude, a man, male, mister-"

"Bobby was speaking in generalities." Sam argues, unwilling to let Dean's skewed perception of the last hour sway his own decision. "He could have just as easily been referring to a female agent." 

"Fine, whatever. But chances are that it was a guy. And," he stresses, pointing an accusatory finger in Sam's direction, "like it or not, there is someone on the force that's helping us." He states each word clearly and does an impressive job of keeping his tone level; he knows he can't afford to lose his temper again, Sam will shut down and tune him out, if he does. "Someone that's clearly playing both sides. And you know who it is."

"I do?" Sam asks, eyebrow cocked. "And who exactly would that be?" But Sam knows exactly to whom Dean is referring. It's the same conclusion he reached after hearing the information Bobby let slip. But unlike Dean, he needs incontrovertible proof that directly incriminates Castiel Milton.

"It's Cas!" Dean shouts, no longer bothering to hide his frustration. 

Sam would laugh if his brother's vehemence weren't so alarming. "Dean, you can't know that for sure. There are still too many variables to take into consideration before we can say, with absolute certainty, that the secret agent Bobby was referring to, _is_ Castiel Milton."

"That's your opinion, not mine." Dean silently stews for a beat, then warns, "And if that's the case, then there's no way in hell we're gonna turn on him now. Not when he's one of our own!"

"Dean, the facts just don't add up. All we have to go by are notes made by some mysterious agent whose identity Bobby refuses to divulge, and not much else." Sam sighs, shakes his head, "I think you're wrong."

"Wrong? Are you serious? Sam, of course it's him. And what do you mean by facts? Who else could it have been? Huh? Who else knew about the warehouse? Or how I ended it up there? Think about it-"

Sam keeps shaking his head, "I just don't see it your way, Dean. I mean, maybe it could be Castiel. But, then again, maybe not-"

"Christ Sam! I just don't understand you sometimes." Dean pounds his fist, curses, "how are you not putting two and two together? Come on, man, aren't you supposed to be the genius here?" 

"Fine." Sam concedes, head aching. "Listen, I admit it does sound like there might be an actual Milton out there betraying his own family. But it's not Castiel."

"Sam, I already told you-"

"And I already heard everything you had to say, Dean. It's time you listened to me." 

Dean inhales, opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks better if it and grudgingly, quiets down. 

"Look, I'm willing to bet it's an entirely different player, altogether. Someone we don't know. Or maybe it was Meg." Sam pauses, gives Dean a chance to rebuttal, or at least to shout at him some more, but resumes when all he gets is stony silence. 

"Dean, after everything we've seen and everything we've learned about the Miltons, you and I both know that each and every member of that family would rather burn in hell, before doing something that would cause harm to another family member. At least, not on purpose."

"Hmpht," Dean snorts, "then maybe they're all in on it." 

Sam's brow furrows and his lips purse, "Well, that's more believable than it being Castiel." 

"Not if what they're doing is wrong-"

"Dean, it's not Castiel. It's not any of the brothers." He tsks and reclines in his seat, he's never been more ready for bed. "Look, I know you want to believe that Castiel is one of the good guys. And maybe he is. But no matter what, he's still a murderer."

"Damn it," Dean snarls, jaw clenched, "Don't you think I know that?"

"Honestly, no." Sam replies, blunt and brutal. "Just look at the way you're acting." 

"What about the way-"

"Dean, you've never questioned me about other suspects like this before." Sam sits back up and studies his brother with a critical eye. "Makes me wonder if this is more than just a case for you. Or if it's maybe something more...personal."

"Personal?" Dean can't believe what he's hearing. The shit coming out of his brother's mouth is, well, bullshit. He takes a sharp turn to their exit, but keeps on arguing, "I'm talking about a fellow agent, Sam, and in my book, that's pretty personal. Or are you so prejudiced against the Miltons that you wouldn't help them even if it meant you'd be wrong." 

Sam responds with sharp intake of breath. "Dean..." He says, voice steely cold and offended. "Take that back. All of it."

"No."

"Dean-"

"If the shoe fits, Sammy."

That does it. Sam is done with Dean's bullheadedness. So he spends the next few minutes rattling off dates, details, and inconsistencies that not only bore holes in Dean's theory, but also, shut him up.

...

Dean turns onto their street a minute later, smiling despite his ire when he sees their house looming in the Impala's headlights.

"Home sweet home." He announces and cuts the engine.

Beside him, Sam drones on, unaware that his brother tuned him out miles ago. "And furthermore," he continues, following Dean to the back of the house, "my source told me that the only way Castiel would do anything unpredictable, was if he was, a. beaten senseless, b. drugged, or c. head over heels in love-"

But Dean doesn't hear him, he's too tired and hungry. And besides, the only thing he's interested in hearing at the moment, is the sound of the shower running, and the sizzle from the frying pan. 

...

"So," Sam hedges, waiting until they're inside the house to ask, "it's decided right? I'll go find Meg and ask her for help."

Dean doesn't stop in his trek. He heads up the stairs (peeling out of his suit jacket and kicking off his shoes along the way) and walks straight to his bedroom. 

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He answers, hearing Sam, but not really paying attention.

"I'm going to go get Meg."

Dean nods, snorts, shrugs, "Yeah, s'good idea. Go grab Meg, hand her over to Bobby, get props for her capture," he grins, "and then get our case back." 

"No," Says Sam, that's not what he meant at all. He takes off his jacket, walks to his own room and tosses it on top of his bed, "that's not what I meant at-"

"I know what you meant." Dean says, cutting Sam off with a pointed glare. 

"Dean, she can help us catch the rest of them. And once they're all in custody, we could finally get our hands on Crowley. Remember him? The real baddie Bobby wants us to catch." 

"Crowley?" Dean asks, rounding on his brother and huffing in disbelief. "First thing's first, Sam. Last time I checked, we still had the bulk of the Milton family running around committing all sorts of crimes. Or did you forget about that little fact?" 

Sam has to count to ten to keep himself from shouting back. "Dean," he exhales, taking controlled breaths, "with Meg's help, and with the information I've gotten from my source, we can take both families down."

"Your source?" Dean snorts, unimpressed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't your secret source actually, Gabriel Milton?"

Sam's cheeks flush a deep crimson. "How did you-"

"Never mind how I know." Dean snaps, adding with a self-satisfied smile, "But he is your source, isn't he?"

"Yeah." Sam nods, because it's true, Gabriel Milton is _the_ source that has provided several facts about the Milton clan that would have otherwise been impossible to ascertain, let alone, confirm. "Yeah, it was Gabe." He says again, cold shudder running up his spine when he recalls the price he had to pay in order to get Gabriel to open up to him. It's the reason he has avoided talking about what he did (and allowed to be done to him) with his brother. 

"Gabe?" Dean parrots, smirking. "Sounds like the two of you got real chummy there, Sammy." Dean pulls out a t-shirt from his dresser, laughs, "Wait a second, didn't you just finish lecturing me on how a Milton would never do anything to cause harm to a fellow family member?"

Sam flushes even deeper. Dean's got him-dead-to-rights. "Yes." He nods again, sharp and fierce. "Gabe is my source, but he didn't know the secrets he was revealing were to an FBI agent."

Dean laughs even harder, "Sammy, I got news for you," he slaps his brother on the shoulder and climbs into bed, "Gabriel Milton played you like a violin."

"All of the information he gave me checked out-"

"Of course it did!" Dean cries out, throwing his arms up, “That S.O.B knew exactly what he was saying, and who he was saying to."

"No, that's not-"

"Yes it is Sam. Admit it. Gabe spoon fed you a bunch of bull-crap, and you fell for it."

"But..." Sam refuses to believe that. There was no reason for Gabriel to have lied to him. Sam was undercover and played the role of a die-hard Milton disciple, beautifully. So much so, in fact, that Gabriel opened up to him about everything: from how much he loved his family to how much he loathed Michael and Lucifer's constant fighting. Gabriel welcomed Sam into the fold, embracing him figuratively (and literally) as one of their own. 

"No...Gabe didn't lie. Everything he told me, was...true."

Dean shrugs, lays down, and turns over. "Whatever." He mutters, back facing Sam. A breath later he flips back over, and with a fierceness in his eyes, says, "Okay, this is what we're gonna do. We're gonna hunt down Meg, just like you said, and force her to help us find Cas."

"Great. That's exactly what I-"

"But we're not doing it to trap him."

"Dean, we already went over this-"

"No!" Dean snaps, pointing his finger. "You went over it. Now it's my turn to tell you my plan."

Sam's jaw snaps shut, he'll listen to his brother's plan, even if it's a poor one. 

"We're going to find Cas," Dean starts again, "find out if he's Bobby's special agent, like I know he is. And if he is," he laughs, but it's humorless, "first I'm gonna punch him in the face, and then..."

"And then what?" 

"And then," Dean sighs, resting his head on his pillow and gazing up at the ceiling, "I'm gonna show him how glad I am I won't have to kill him, after all."

"No."

"What?" 

"I said, no. I'm not helping you do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Did you forget the part where Castiel Milton is an assassin?"

"Yeah, but-"

"And not just any assassin," Sam says, cutting Dean off, "but the one specifically assigned to assassinate you." 

Dean shakes his head, sits up and asks, "And did your special source give you that information, too?" 

But Sam doesn't reply to that. "My mind is made up." He says instead, already halfway to his own room. "And as lead agent on this case," he calls out, "I say we're going with my plan, whether you like it or not!"


	3. Chapter 3

Dean springs from his bed and heads to the bathroom the moment he hears Sam's door click shut. He's got a lot of thinking to do. But first, he needs a shower. A long hot one that will rinse the cobwebs from his head, and the aches and pains from his limbs.

...

A good twenty minutes later, Dean falls back into bed. Not because he's still tired (the shower helped rejuvenate him) but because he feels drained: bogged down with a weariness that's bone deep, and a heaviness in his chest, that's suffocating.

So he lays there for a long while (gazing at the ceiling, muttering curses under his breath) pissed-off with everything and everyone, but mostly with himself.

"Sure managed to fuck everything up." He grouses, afraid that by choosing to defend Castiel, he's not only alienated Sam, but has also jeopardized their careers and endangered Castiel's life. 

But how to make it right? 

Dean needs to start with Sam. 

He knows his brother's plan is a good one, but how to convince him that it's not the _right_ one. That betraying Castiel, then handing him over to the 'hangman', is no longer an option for him. Especially not since learning (thank you very much, Bobby) that the seasoned assassin is also a fellow agent. 

No, as far as Dean is concerned, knowing that Castiel is on their team and has been helping them since before all of this even started, should be reason enough for Sam to admit that he's wrong and figure out some other way to take down the Milton empire that won't directly involve Castiel. 

Sounds reasonable enough. 

But before he can approach his brother again with this lunacy, Dean has to confirm the validity on a few stories Castiel shared with him, that night. Specifically one assassination that has haunted Dean all of his life.

And then maybe, if he plays his cards right, asks nicely, and promises to do all of the house-hold chores for the rest of the year, he won't have to figure it all out on his own.

...

Dean knows his brother, or at least his brother's appetite; the guy's stomach is a bottomless pit. So he goes out and picks up some supplies, whips up a batch of pasta, throws a large loaf of buttery garlic bread into the oven, and knows the enticing aromas will lure Sam from his bedroom.

"Smells good." Sam exclaims, right on cue. 

...

"Bread's great." Sam says, reaching for another large chunk to sop up the tomato sauce. "When did you go on a grocery run?" 

Dean chews, swallows, burps, "I went to the grocery store after my shower," he shrugs, "picked up some supplies. Felt like eating something homemade, you know. I'm sick and tired of take out."

Sam couldn't agree more; he'd much rather have Dean's home cooking any day of the week, over fast food or take out. But he knows his brother well, and even though taking care of him is 'quintessential' Dean, doing it after they've had an argument, is more than a little suspicious.

Sam ends his meal with a hum of appreciation, stretches, then yawns. "Thanks." He says and stands up. "I'm beat, so I'm going to do a little reading before turning in."

"Wait." 

"You need something?" Sam asks, knowing fully well what his brother wants. 

"It's Cas-"

'I knew it! I knew you did all of this because you only wanted-" 

"Look," Dean pleads, hands up to block any potential blows, "you're wrong about Cas, okay. He isn't like his douche bag brothers."

Sam snorts but Dean plows on. "He's not." He swears, adding, "Michael and Lucifer...heck, that whole damn family, is nuts. But not Cas."

"Dean," Sam frowns, he's worried about his brother, this obsession he has with Castiel is…dangerous, "Castiel Milton kidnapped and tortured you. How does that make him any different from his brothers?"

"He was just pissed at me."

"Yeah," Sam nods, "I can totally see that. But why bother torturing you? Why not just kill you from the get go?"

Dean smirks, a wicked little grin, "Maybe because he wasn't done having his way with my gorgeous-"

"Dean!" Sam cries. "I can't believe you're joking about this!" 

"Sorry." Dean apologizes, grabbing Sam to keep him from leaving. He knows he's asking for a lot. Too much probably, and even though what he's asking his brother to do might get them both fired (jailed would be more likely) he has to at least try and explain to Sam how wrong he is about Castiel. 

"Look, I know this sounds...I don't know, wrong or whatever, but just take my word for it, okay. Cas is not the bad guy here. He's a victim, too."

Sam laughs, a short bark that throws Dean off. "Meg was right," he says, head shaking in disbelief and looking at Dean as if seeing him for the very first time, "your dick is going to get us killed." 

Dean's heart sinks, he doesn't necessarily blame Sam for doubting him, but goddamnit, after everything they've been through, his word should count for something. 

"Sam," he starts again, steady and steely, he has to get his brother on board, or Castiel's chances of coming out of this in one sane piece, are zilch, "there's some stuff from Cas' past that if you only knew," Dean whistles, "bro, it would curl your hair."

Sam crosses his arms and nods. If Dean wants his help, then he has to do a lot more than just ask him to run blindly into a burning building. "Fine." he exhales, pissed that Dean refuses to tell him everything. Although, Dean keeping secrets from him is nothing new. "Tell me everything you know." 

"I…can't."

Sam throws his arms up and turns as if to leave, but then Dean blurts out, "He killed the guy that killed mom!" 

Sam freezes in his tracks: head, heart, soul, all of him, freezes. 

He turns back to Dean, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach, and asks, "What did you say?" 

"He killed Azazel." Dean clarifies, nauseated every time he has to say that monster's name out loud. He holds his hands up, a placating gesture, and measures his next words carefully. "Cas, he's, well, it's true he's killed people. But they were all mostly bad guys."

Sam is silent at first. He doesn't know where to start. He has so many questions, so much to wrap his mind around (things he needs to know) before he can begin to understand. "So he's like some kind of...vigilante?" 

Dean purses his lips, nods, "Yeah, something like that." He knows Sam's spooked, heck, Dean nearly fell out of his chair when he found out that the real reason Azazel's trail went cold was because he had been murdered, and not because he was in hiding.

"Mom?" Sam says, voice small. "I mean, how did Castiel know Azazel killed her?" 

"Cas didn't." Answers Dean, gut clenching whenever he recalls the night their mother died. He meets his brother's anxious gaze and tries to find the right words. But it's no use, there's no sugar-coating what Castiel did. 

"What you have to understand is..." Dean pauses again but holds his brother's gaze. What he's about to reveal is a real game-changer, and now, more than ever, he needs to make sure Sam fully understands the magnitude of what Castiel has done for them. 

"Cas wasn't looking for mom's killer." Dean explains, huffing a bitter laugh. "He didn't know mom at all. But he did know about Azazel. Cas knew that piece of shit liked burning women alive. So he hunted him down and killed him."

Sam's jaw drops. 

Azazel died at Castiel's hand. It's great. It's horrific. It's surreal; their number one target was murdered by the very man they've been tasked to catch and put away. 

"But how did you find out Castiel murdered him?" Sam asks, desperate for more answers. "I mean, did he come up to you and say, 'Hi my name is Castiel Milton, FBI's most wanted mass murderer, and the guy that killed the monster that murdered your mother.'"

Dean frowns, "Jesus Sam. Now who's joking around?"

"I'm not joking!" 

"Look, you know I met him at the diner, right?"

Sam nods. 

"And that we went on a date that night."

Another nod. 

"Well, one thing led to another and then he kinda had no choice but to tell me."

"He had no choice?" Sam asks, but then holds up a hands to keep Dean from answering. "Wait." He grimaces. "I don't want to know the reason why. Do I?"

Dean rolls his eyes, "Christ Sam, grow up, already." 

"It's not like it wouldn't be the first time this happened-"

"You gonna let me finish?"

Another nod, sharp and offended. 

"Anyway, like I was saying," Dean resumes, "Cas had to tell me, okay. I kinda caught him killing a guy, so-"

"Oh my God!" Sam cries out again, doing a double take.

"We were hanging out," Dean barrels on, ignoring Sam's outburst, "having a couple of drinks. Then we went back to his car, and, um," he smirks, waggles his brows, "fooled around."

"Please," Sam begs, "skip to the part where you found out he was Castiel Milton 'the killer', and not your, bleh, latest conquest."

Dean laughs but takes pity on his brother. He pauses to grab a couple of beers and resumes only after he's consumed most of his bottle. "Fair enough." He toasts, and starts again. "After we were done, we went back to the bar and he said he had to go to the bathroom.

"But he was gone a long time, you know, like a really long while." Dean drops his eyes, plays with the bottle's label, "And I ah, got a little worried. Thought he might be hurt, or, I don't know, thought that maybe he just left." 

"Dean, why would-"

"He got his rocks off, Sam. He got what he wanted and took off." Dean meets Sam's eyes and Sam exhales, he knows there's nothing he can say to convince Dean to the contrary. 

"But you went looking for him, anyway." Sam states, moving past the awkwardness by gently prodding Dean to continue. 

"Yeah. Like I said, I got worried and went looking for him." Dean downs the rest of his drink, goes to the kitchen to grab another round, hollers, "You need a fresh one?" But walks back to the dining room without waiting for a reply. 

"Here." He says, handing Sam his beer.

"So..."

"So I walked into the men's room and Cas was with another guy."

Sam frowns and his jaw clenches.

"No," Dean chuckles, placing a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder, "Not in _that_ way."

"Then in what-"

"Cas was slitting the guy's throat."

Sam spits up beer, sputters, "What? Dean, did you stop him? And why the hell was he trying to kill some random stranger in the men's room when you're-"

"The guy wasn't random." 

"...?..."

"Don't look at me like that."

"Explain."

Dean exhales, takes a deep breath, and does his best to explain what happened that night. "Look, at first I thought Cas was being attacked. Okay? That he was just defending himself."

"So you're telling me you caught him murdering an innocent man and you didn't try to stop him?"

"Nope."

"And why not?"

"Because the guy he was killing was the furthest thing from innocent, that's why." 

"And you knew this, how?" 

Dean mutters a curse, he doesn't want to relive what happened; it was bad enough the first time around. "I recognized him." 

"And?" Sam presses, because he has to know. "Who was the mystery man you let Castiel Milton murder right in front of you?"

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He'd rather not reveal more than he has to, but he knows that in order to get Sam to help him, he has to at least reveal the victim's identity. 

"Dean," Sam says, trying his damnedest to sound reasonable, "I don't care if this guy had it coming, or not. It's not our place to judge." He forces Dean to look him in the eye. "You know that, right?" 

"Sam, it's not-"

"It's not what, Dean?" Sam huffs in disbelief, he can't believe his brother is trying to justify Castiel's actions. "Your whole life has been about stopping the bad guys from hurting innocent people. Remember? Helping them, saving them. And then Castiel comes along and in one fell swoop," Sam shakes his head, "all of the rules change?" 

"It's not like that. Cas is-"

"Different? Is that what you were going to say? Because he's not." Sam runs a hand through his hair and exhales loudly through his nose. He's confused, angry, and can't for the life of him figure out what the hell is wrong with his brother. 

"Dean," he starts, pinning Dean with furrowed brow and earnest eyes, "I need you to explain what is really going on here. What you did was wrong." He stresses, trying to keep his disappointment from seeping into his tone. "But you don't seem to care. I just need to understand why you didn't stop him from killing-"

"Because the guy was number three on the FBI's most wanted list."

Sam's brows shoot up. Okay, maybe there is more to Castiel Milton than he initially thought.  
"Are you sure?" He asks, then winces. "Sorry." He mutters, because of course Dean is sure. Dean, more than anyone else, knows exactly who Alistair Daemon is, and exactly of what he is capable; Dean still bears the scars from their brief interactions. 

"He killed Alastair?"

Dean nods, grim, but triumphant. "That's right, _the_ Alastair Daemon. You remember him, right? The sick fuck who liked to play with his victims before..." Dean swallows, the click in his throat, audible, "...devouring them." A cold shiver runs up his back - sometimes he can still feel the red hot burn of Alistair's blade as it slices through vulnerable muscle.

"And Castiel killed him while you watched?" 

"Yeah. And I did not try to stop him." Dean laughs at that, but it's humorless. "You should've seen that fucker's face when he saw me just standing there." Dean rubs roughly at his face and draws a deep breath, he wants to get through this as quickly as possible, tell his brother the jist of what happened, and then, never discuss it again. 

"When Cas was done," he continues, determined to finish, "I helped him hide the body in the nearest john, and then we got the hell outta there. Exited through the back, raced to his car, and that's when I asked Cas about Alistair. 

"But he just tried to tell me some bullshit story about getting mugged and how it was self defense." Dean snorts but then smiles at the memory; Castiel might be gorgeous, and a serious badass, but he's a shitty lier. "I knew he was lying." He points out, still smiling, "And he knew I knew. So, he fessed up."

"He fessed up? Just like that?"

"Yup. He said he'd been tracking Alistair, it's why he was in town. And that he knew he'd be at the bar that night. So, when he spotted him, Cas killed the fucker before he could get his hooks on another victim."

"Castiel went looking for Alistair in order to kill him."

Dean nods.

"But that still doesn't explain how you ended up tied to a chair getting the crap beat out of you."

"Oh, yeah, guess not." Dean drops his eyes again and smiles at his lap. "After he told me who he really was and how he only went after douchebags that deserved to die, we sorta celebrated."

"What?" 

"I don't know, Sam." Dean stands up, paces the floor, and tries to explain. "One second I'm yelling at him and threatening to lock him up with Michael and Lucifer-"

"You told him you had his brothers? Dean, what the hell is wrong-"

"-and the next second," Dean continues, talking over his brother's outburst, "we're celebrating. And boy," he whistles, "Cas celebrated my brains out."

Sam grimaces and gags, but when he gets his voice back, asks, "Is that why you were kidnapped? Because he found out you were FBI?" 

Dean doesn't have a good answer for that. At least not one that will make sense. "I don't know." He says, and it's the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but it's the best he can offer Sam without actually asking Castiel for the real reason behind his abduction. 

"Truth is," he adds, tone sheepish, "Cas already knew I was an agent since the diner."

"Since the diner? Wait," Sam's eyes widen in understanding, "has he been following us?"

Dean shakes his head, "No, he was following Alastair. Meeting me was just a coincidence. Although," he pauses, meeting Sam's eyes, "now that I think about it, Alastair was was probably following me." Dean snorts, slaps his brother on the shoulder. "Heh, small fucking world. Right, Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam replies, not entirely convinced anything that has happened thus far, has been a coincidence. "So then how did Castiel find out you were FBI?"

"I ah, might have given him my business card after we..."

Sam closes his eyes and has to take several deep breaths to keep from exploding. He can't believe Dean's recklessness, or how little he seems to care that he stupidly put their lives in great peril. "Are you seriously telling me that you handed over your personal information to a guy you just had sex with in a diner bathroom?"

Dean shrugs, unapologetic, but wisely remains silent.

Sam has had enough. He mutters an exasperated, "You know what, don't tell me. I don't want to know." And starts cleaning up. 

All the while Dean watches him with bated breath. He knows he's fucked up, but nonetheless crosses his fingers and hopes that Sam will agree to help him. To help them. "Sam?" he prods, trying to get his brother's attention when the silence has stretched for far too long.

"I'm going to bed." Sam replies, tone flat. "We'll talk more in the morning." And with that, he drops the empty bottles in the recycle bin, and heads back to his bedroom.

...

Dean is disappointed, very disappointed. But he'll let Sam have his space for the time being and instead, finishes cleaning up. 

He does the dishes, wipes down the counters, and when everything is done, kills the lights, and goes back to his bedroom, all the while fighting a feeling of hopelessness and despair that has been threatening to engulf him, for days.

...

Dean is utterly exhausted and in dire need of a few hours of sleep. He needs to rest and recharge if he hopes to come up with a plan (now that Sam's help is out of the question) that will get them reassigned to the Milton case without implicating Castiel, or blowing his cover. 

So he climbs into bed, closes his eyes, and prays for a miracle.

It's too bad he won't be around come morning to learn that Sam, having spent the entire night doing his own research on Castiel's kills, had finally decided to help Dean help the man, for whom he has so completely fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part will have more Dean/Cas scenes. Stick around, things are about to get supersexy!


End file.
